The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  The servant gabbled so rapidly in Hindustani that James couldn’t comprehend him. But the beseeching tone he did understand.

  ‘Very well,’ said James, ‘wait here.’

  He doubled back and ordered a syce to fetch his pony. In a few days Logan would be back with his new bride and James could hand over responsibility for the burra bungalow once and for all. There would be a mistress in charge and no need for him to be summoned like a lackey by the bullying Logan to do his distasteful bidding. As James made his way to Dunsapie Cottage he thought with satisfaction how he had impressed on Aruna that her son was being well cared for but in future she must stay away from Logan sahib. A brisk talking-to was all that was needed. He was discovering from old hands like Fairfax how best to deal with their workers. ‘Firm but fair. Just like with children. That’s how to get the best out of them. No need for cruelty.’

  The bungalow was strangely quiet. Even though the master was away, James still expected to see and hear servants about the place – a mali or a sweeper. Not even a dog barked. The burra bungalow seemed deserted.

  Sunil Ram came dashing past him, panting from running all the way from the office compound. He got to the bungalow steps and stopped. James dismounted and came up behind.

  ‘Well, what is the matter?’

  To James’s irritation, the man would go no further. He pointed into the house and moaned. Perhaps some wild animal had found its way into the house and the servants had fled in fear. He drew out his pistol and climbed the steps.

  There was nothing on the veranda to cause alarm. He ventured inside. The cool tiled floor and darkened interior made him give an involuntary shiver. But there was nothing untoward. James crossed the sitting room and opened the door to Logan’s study. He waited while his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. All was silent. He walked behind the desk and, throwing open the shutters, looked round warily. There was nothing.

  He let out a sigh of relief. Sunil Ram would feel his wrath if this was a fuss about nothing. James strode back across the central room and flung open the opposite door. Realising it was Logan’s bedroom, he hesitated. He could see the outline of the large bed draped in nets. He walked in. It was the smell that hit him first. James stopped in his tracks. Confusion gave way to disbelief and then horror. His chest went tight. He couldn’t breathe . . .

  James cried out.

  ‘It’s me – Libby. You’re okay. Dad, you’re okay.’

  James was still in the grip of his nightmare. He could still see . . . He shuddered in fear. But the spectre was receding. He wasn’t inside that terrible room after all. He was on his own veranda in the early dawn. With Libby. James gulped for breath. His heart palpitated. He was close to tears. The relief.

  ‘Libby?’ he gasped.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ she reassured him, squeezing his hand.

  ‘Oh, Libby . . .’

  To his utter disbelief he felt a sob rise up inside that he couldn’t control. It burst out of him. Once he started weeping, he couldn’t stop. Great wracking sobs shook and convulsed his body. His daughter – this half-stranger – held him and stroked his hair as if he were the child. He felt grateful and humiliated in equal measure.

  It was then that he noticed the Eurasian girl. She looked familiar. Should he know her? She regarded him with pity and handed him a glass of soda. He couldn’t take it. Libby took it for him and tried to get him to sip. It slopped down his chin.

  ‘I’ll ring for Dr Attar,’ said the woman whose name he couldn’t remember.

  Who was Dr Attar? The garden doctor was called Thomas. Did she mean him? And who needed him?

  ‘Dad, tell me what’s wrong.’

  He stared at the young woman holding his hand. She looked like Tilly. Was it Tilly? James opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.

  He felt utterly weary. He was glad he didn’t have to speak. A comforting numbness settled inside. Perhaps that’s why people cried, because it washed away pain like a river in spate washes away stones.

  He clasped the hand of the young woman and closed his eyes. He welcomed the fog that enveloped his thoughts. He didn’t have to think about anything.

  CHAPTER 16

  I’ve given him a sedative,’ said Dr Attar, joining Libby and Flowers on the veranda. ‘At least it will help him sleep.’

  The sun was up and the air already hot and humid.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Libby. ‘That’s what he needs – he must be exhausted from not having slept properly for months.’ She invited the doctor to sit down and take tea and toast.

  ‘It’s more than lack of sleep though,’ said Flowers, ‘isn’t it, Doctor? You said he’s been near to a mental breakdown before.’

  ‘He’s not mad,’ Libby protested.

  ‘Nobody’s saying he is,’ said Flowers, ‘but he is ill. All that drinking till he passes out – it’s the sign of a troubled mind.’

  ‘You’re exaggerating. All tea planters like their chota peg after a hard day’s work,’ Libby said.

  ‘Not as much as that,’ said Flowers. She turned to the young doctor. ‘What is your opinion?’

  Dr Attar put down his cup and gave Libby a compassionate look.

  ‘I believe Robson sahib is suffering from nervous exhaustion,’ he said. ‘It’s not something that’s happened overnight – he was under considerable strain during the War helping the relief efforts on the Burma Front. That is when I first came to the plantation here. Your father worked like a Trojan, organising canteens and transporting supplies. He drove himself so hard.’

  ‘I had no idea he was so involved in the war effort,’ said Libby, feeling guilty. ‘We thought that in Britain we were doing far more.’

  ‘But many people worked hard during the War,’ Flowers pointed out, ‘my own father included. It doesn’t explain why Mr Robson should be suddenly worse now.’

  Dr Attar looked pensive. ‘It may be a delayed response to the stress of that time – but he is also a man who has just turned seventy. That is old to still be working on a tea plantation. I have suggested retirement – or at least a period of home leave – but the most he would do was go to Belgooree for a bit of rest and recuperation. In my view he did not stay long enough.’

  Libby flushed. ‘That was probably my fault, insisting on coming to Assam and the Oxford Estates. I was so impatient to see him and my old home. He cut short his stay at Belgooree for me.’

  ‘You’re not to blame,’ said the doctor. ‘Robson sahib is not a man who takes easily to sitting around – he sees it as idleness, not a well-earned rest.’

  ‘Doctor,’ said Flowers with a puzzled frown, ‘I have seen soldiers that have been affected by war – not just physically but from battle shock – and Libby’s father reminds me of them. It’s as if they are re-living the moments under gunfire – like it’s very real to them – and it makes them suffer all over again. Is there something traumatic that could have triggered this for Mr Robson?’

  Dr Attar nodded. ‘I have wondered this too. His health does seem to have deteriorated in recent weeks – though why, I can’t say.’

  Libby’s heart began to thud. ‘Could it be because of my coming back to India?’ she asked.

  ‘Surely not?’ said Flowers. ‘He must have been longing for that.’

  ‘Or nervous about it,’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps it stirred up all his unhappiness that my mother wasn’t coming too. He hasn’t been himself since I’ve been here – not the happy, larger-than-life father that I remember. There’s a distance between us that I hadn’t expected.’

  ‘I don’t think that is to do with you,’ said Dr Attar. ‘He has been withdrawn for a while – keeping himself to himself at Cheviot View rather than socialising at the club.’

  Libby said, ‘Clarrie Robson thought there was something troubling Dad but that he wouldn’t talk about it. She thought I might be able to find out what it was, but I can’t get him to talk about anything personal.’

  ‘Why don’t we take him back to Belgooree?
’ suggested Flowers. ‘Get him away from what’s worrying him here. Perhaps then he will open up to you about what is troubling him. I could help you do that before I return to Calcutta next week.’

  Libby considered this. Clarrie might be just the calm, practical person to help, whereas staying here, isolated at Cheviot View once Flowers had gone, was a daunting thought. What if her father’s mental state got worse? How would she cope if he refused to confide in her about what troubled him? The place no longer seemed the idyllic childhood home after which she had hankered for so long. Its heat and remoteness were growing oppressive. A green prison, her mother had called it, and for the first time Libby had a sense of what it must have been like for Tilly – a young woman used to city life – having to make her home here.

  ‘I think that would be a good idea,’ encouraged Dr Attar.

  Libby gave Flowers a grateful look. ‘Okay, I’ll ring Clarrie and see if that’s possible.’

  To Libby’s surprise, her father made little protest at the suggestion of going to Belgooree. He was groggy and confused when he awoke, saying little and allowing Libby to make the decisions.

  ‘Belgooree . . . yes . . . if you like . . .’ he said.

  Libby had been encouraged by Clarrie’s instant acceptance of the arrangement.

  ‘Of course you must come,’ she urged on the crackly telephone line. ‘It will be wonderful to see you – and Flowers too.’

  It was arranged that Manzur would share the driving with Libby. Two days later, they loaded up the car and waved farewell to Aslam and Meera, leaving them in charge of the bungalow.

  ‘We’ll be back soon,’ Libby promised, though more to pacify her father who, at the last minute, grew agitated that neither Aslam nor his faithful hound Breckon were going with him. ‘Manzur can always bring Aslam over to Belgooree if you find that he’s needed. And the servants will spoil Breckon here.’ Libby knew that Flowers was wary of dogs and would hate a long car journey confined with the boisterous Breckon.

  They drove all day, the steering wheel too hot to touch without driving gloves, and stopped only to picnic at dak bungalows along the way and to get temporary relief in the shade.

  It was dark by the time they began the ascent up to Belgooree, the car headlights catching fireflies in their beam and a welcoming breeze cooling the travellers. Manzur was driving so Libby was able to hang out of the window and see the familiar outline of the Belgooree factory come into view, as they bumped up the pot-holed track through the tea garden. Her father had been asleep since their tea stop an hour ago.

  The nostalgic heady scent of flowers and pines made Libby’s eyes prickle with emotion. It brought back memories of family trips to see her father’s Belgooree cousins and how ridiculously excited she would become. ‘Sit still!’ her mother would cry. But her father would let them out at the bottom of the track and allow Libby and Jamie to run all the way from the factory up to the house. Libby resisted the urge to jump out and do so now in the dark. But as they pulled up outside the old bungalow, gleaming silver in the moonlight, Libby was leaping out of the car and up the veranda steps.

  Clarrie was waiting on the veranda to welcome them. Her black hair now held a few silver threads, but at sixty-one, Libby thought the woman still beautiful. Her fine-featured face glowed in the lamplight and her dark eyes were lively. Despite her old-fashioned frock, Clarrie still had the figure of a young woman.

  Libby hugged her warmly. ‘This is very good of you, Cousin Clarrie. Dad’s not well.’

  ‘You know I would do anything for Tilly’s family.’ Clarrie smiled. ‘I’m so happy to see you.’ She turned. ‘Harry, darling, go and help Uncle James out of the car.’

  It was then that Libby saw a tall youth standing in the shadows. ‘Cousin Harry?’ she gasped. ‘We’ve never met – but you look so like your dad, it couldn’t be anyone else.’

  The boy gave a bashful smile and an awkward handshake before jumping down the steps to help his elderly cousin. ‘Manzur!’ he cried in delight, on catching sight of his former tutor.

  ‘That was kind,’ murmured Clarrie. ‘Harry loves to be compared to his father, though I’m afraid he has little memory of Wesley . . .’

  ‘I meant it,’ said Libby. ‘He’s got his father’s dark good looks. In a few years the tea planters’ daughters will be fighting over him at the club dances.’

  Clarrie laughed softly and put a hand on her arm. ‘And you have grown so pretty, Libby – you have the lovely Robson eyes.’

  Libby blushed with pleasure; none of her family had ever said that.

  As Harry led a disorientated James up the steps, Libby noticed Flowers sharing a cigarette with Manzur. They made an attractive couple. On the journey while James had slept, the nurse had been quizzing Manzur about The Lodge but he seemed vague about its previous occupants. She wondered what Flowers was talking to him about now.

  ‘Clarrie!’ James exclaimed.

  ‘James.’ Clarrie smiled and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Come and make yourself comfortable. How was your journey?’

  Libby watched in amazement as her father followed her meekly to a cane sofa and sat down beside her. But it was the look on her father’s face that surprised her the most: a tenderness that she had not seen before. It was the sort of expression that Libby had longed to see pass between her parents. The concern that she had felt in England, that her father and Wesley’s widow might have grown close during Tilly’s long absence, resurfaced. How intimate had they grown during the War?

  Libby banished such thoughts; Clarrie was merely being kind. That’s the sort of generous person she was. Libby was over-tired from the driving and the past few days of little sleep and was reading too much into a couple of glances and a kiss on the cheek.

  Declining supper, Libby went thankfully to bed in the small back bedroom which she used to share with Adela on long-ago holidays. She dozed off to the sound of crickets and muted conversation and slept soundly.

  Two days later, as Libby walked with Flowers in the garden, Flowers told Libby of her decision to get a lift to Gowhatty with Manzur and take the train back to Calcutta.

  ‘Your father is in good hands here,’ she said to Libby. ‘I think you should have time together as a family and not worry about having to entertain me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Libby, ‘it’s been no holiday for you at all.’

  ‘I’ve enjoyed a lot of it,’ said Flowers, ‘so you mustn’t feel guilty. I just hope your father’s health improves quickly.’

  ‘He already seems calmer here,’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps all he needs is a change of air.’

  Flowers looked sceptical. ‘Try and get him to talk about what’s concerning him.’

  Libby, silently hoping that recuperation was all her father needed, changed the subject. ‘What about our trip to Shillong? We still haven’t been to the orphanage. Are you sure you don’t want to stay a little longer?’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to find out about Daddy’s past any more,’ said Flowers. ‘I think it’s more important to decide what our future is going to be.’

  Libby gave her a teasing smile. ‘And you’d rather spend a car journey with a certain assistant manager than visit orphanages?’

  Flowers grinned. ‘Perhaps. He is very charming. Not that he’s interested in a half-half like me.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Libby said. ‘Manzur’s not prejudiced.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Flowers, ‘but our communities are. Daddy would hate the idea of me fraternising with an Indian – and Manzur’s parents will no doubt have a good Muslim wife picked out for him.’

  Libby slipped her arm through her friend’s and continued their stroll across the lawn. ‘Things are changing fast. It might not always be like that. Our generation will be different.’

  Flowers asked, ‘Are you still holding out hope for the handsome Ghulam?’

  Libby’s heart jumped at his mention. She had confided her feelings to Flowers on one of the hot afternoons they had spent ai
mlessly flicking through books and lounging on the veranda at Cheviot View. He was rarely out of her thoughts but she knew it was fruitless to hanker after him; her love was unrequited.

  ‘Not really,’ Libby said. ‘He doesn’t feel the same way about me.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong,’ said Flowers. ‘The night of your party he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.’

  Libby reddened. ‘You’re just saying that to be kind.’

  ‘Not at all – I’m good at observing people and I think Ghulam finds you very attractive. Not just that, but he’s the sort of man who wouldn’t bother being friends with a woman unless he found them interesting too.’

  ‘Thank you for saying that.’ Libby gave a wistful smile. ‘But even if he does, he won’t act on it – I’m still one of the despised British. He will never let such a relationship develop. His sister warned me off too – didn’t want me to get hurt.’

  Flowers gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. ‘What was that you were just saying about things changing? Be optimistic. And carry on being who you are, Libby, whatever men like Ghulam think. Don’t let others define you. Your cousin Adela taught me that. She stood up to the bullies at our school and didn’t change who she was to fit in with them. She showed me how to be brave and I’ll always be grateful to her for that.’

  Before Flowers’s early morning departure, she gave Libby an envelope.

  ‘If you get the chance to go into Shillong, then these are the details that I know of Dad’s schooling. But don’t feel you have to.’

  ‘If I can, I will,’ promised Libby.

  ‘And if you ever need somewhere to stay in Calcutta,’ said Flowers, ‘then you are always welcome in our home.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Libby hugged her. ‘You’ve been so helpful and understanding. And I hope I’ll get back to Calcutta soon – when Dad’s feeling better.’

  ‘Write to him,’ Flowers said in a soft voice that the others couldn’t hear.

  ‘To who?’

  ‘Ghulam, of course. It’s sometimes easier to say things in writing. The worst that can happen is that he doesn’t reply.’